Hey Corporal Vranich (my dear repeat bodyguard), I saw a popsicle truck today; you were the best time I ever had while getting sunburned; I hope you are well.

She.

He.

She, she had a fine nose and pouty lips and intelligent big blue eyes that probed. She was all of eighteen, vigorous and funny and challenging.

He was a teddy bear sort–sincere and lovable and caring with lit-up eyes, a mischievous smile and capable of wonderful hugs. He was a Marine five years her senior–as big as the world and timid like a lamb.

They had known one another for two months now, and had been inseparable. They laughed and joked and shared ideas on the philosophies of life as only the young and yet-unhampered can.

Still a fresh bride, she spoke of her One True Love to him, and he told her of his Bride-To-Be. What a pair they were, these two: Silly with life, and full of the very same. They told corny jokes, ate from one another’s plates, talked long past last call about Those Important Things and about their plans for the Promising Future.

What brought them here this particular evening was her car. That silly, stubborn, tired little blue car of hers.

“Wait here.” her mother told her, “Your brother and I will go to the auto parts store.” And turning to him, she asked, “Would you please wait with her? This place is pretty deserted.”

Ever respectful, he replied, “Yes ma’am; sure I will!” Mother and brother drove off and that was that.

Once they were left alone, he mentioned the need to study for tomorrow’s exam while escorting her to his own car. As she slid behind the wheel, offering to assist him in his studies, he politely closed the door that he had opened for her.

After seating himself on the passenger side, he fiddled with the knobs on his radio before giving up to slide a tape in. Fifties music–their favorite to share. Many an afternoon had been passed tearing down back roads in this very car, doo-wop music blaring, as they squawked (or crooned, depending on the tempo of the particular song) out the tunes along with the “oldies but goodies”. She believed a jarhead with a muscle car and a fanatical love of song to be a fine, fine thing.

They talked and joked a bit, hearing the mosquitoes buzz and crickets wail, before he pulled out his manual and she began to quiz him.

It was a summer night –the sun was taking its leisurely time setting– and the air was heavy and sweet, perhaps heavy enough to slow the brain and hamper thinking. As he was taking a long pause between her question and his answer, she caught herself scrutinizing his profile–that strong brow creased into a concentrated furrow, those full soft lips that were compelling her to lean in closer and bask in his heat, the strong muscles of his legs as they occasionally twitched and beckoned her to just touch–just lightly run her fingertips over them and…..

“Oh!” she exclaimed softly –too soft for his ears to catch– and cleared her throat. She was quite sure she was blushing. She never blushed. He startled out of his concentrated stare and offered an answer. As she proclaimed it correct, he beamed her that huge little boy grin that always elicited in her the want to give him a great big hug. She laughed and began searching for a new question with which to puzzle him.

As she leaned forward to begin the search, the second button of her denim shirt escaped its buttonhole and he found himself glimpsing what was there. He saw the stark white line of her bra against that tan flesh and caught the swell and inner curve of her left breast as it fell up and down with her soft breathing. He looked at the gentle way her neck curved with her head tilted forward this way, then noticed how a few wispy hairs had escaped her blonde ponytail and lay against the curve. The humidity caused them to curl into tiny ringlets and had lain a light sheen of perspiration along her neck and breast. As the first strains of “Earth Angel” began, he suddenly had an overwhelming desire to touch her–to cup her breast in his left hand and slip the other around the nape of her neck and just bury, bury, bury himself in the aroma of her sweet, sensuous body and never…..

She interrupted this chain of thought with a question about thrust ratio and a helicopter and he suddenly felt awkward with her. She felt it too as their eyes met, and it was a strange and difficult moment for the both of them. They had never been this way with one another before.

“Man, the mosquitoes sure are getting bad in here! Hold on, I think I’ve got a blanket in the trunk.”

He jumped out, and he did have a blanket. It was big and robin’s-egg blue and THICK. He got back into the passenger seat and began to tuck it around her quickly; her mind cried out in a little child’s voice.

“But it’s hot and I’m sweaty and he’s the one bothered by the mosquitoes, so why do I need to be covered???” But she knew why and the protest didn’t escape her lips.

And she waited.

And he waited.

They each had their own powerful thoughts about different things, and they sat there listening to the old slow classics, stared out the windshield at the desolate industrial park –empty train tracks running into the dipping sun alongside it– and waited.

Occasionally one stole a clandestine glance at the other. Mostly, though, they just stayed buried in their thinking and waiting.

And eventually mother and brother returned.

::: :: ::: :: :::

she’d fix me a dinner of sunflower seeds / and ready-whipped topping inhalers / and take me down South with Hall and Oats in her mouth / my first love my Joan Jett of Arc

my black heart was heavy / but her mom’s Cougar was fast / as little pink houses were whistled / and it was all you can eat at the Sizzler that night / my steak burnin’ Joan Jett of Arc / my steak burnin’ Joan Jett of Arc

and the shopping malls and roller rinks / all dimmed their lights / cicadas and crickets were silent / and the train trackslike stitches skidding bicycle tires / as I slipped in my Joan Jett of Arc …

as I slipped in my Joan Jett of Arc

as I slipped in my Joan Jett of Arc

as I slipped in my Joan Jett of Arc

and the birds that were crushed / once had air in their bones / as oil was refined in her honor

Iminlinewmaconthisone….I’m not literate enough to come up with words to describe your writing either….In fact I don’t read much because I become bored with the way people write or the subject is of no interest…All I can say is that your writing brings one into the words as few I have read have done.

Because I don’t like this piece overmuch. I find it a bit stilted and blecky-sweet, and as Our Dear Dane said in his own fine fashion, bodice-heaving teenybopper softcore.

It just didn’t flow the way I wanted it to, and I sort of hate it.

Thank you for suffering through my muse’s injustices with me,

>Jett<

pee ess….Wretchedee, one day you will learn to deliver a compliment kid-glove with the palm of your hand rather than backhanding sharply. I love you anyway, you chokable buffoon. You know: Despite your glaring flaws and all. P